


First Day

by assholeachilleus



Series: Deaf!jon au [9]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blink and you'll miss it, Deaf!Jon, M/M, Trans!Martin, fluff with a tiny smidge of angst, head archivist!sasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28453278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assholeachilleus/pseuds/assholeachilleus
Summary: Jon's first day working at the Magnus Institute after accepting Elias' job offer. Part of my deaf!jon au but can be read alone.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Deaf!jon au [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072478
Comments: 14
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so glad I finally get to write sasha, we were robbed in canon. Thank you for all the comments and kudos on this series, I'm so overwhelmed and grateful!! Also, considering this is something that was ridiculously self-indulgent, I'm so glad it appeals to other people than myself jksjfkdfjsd. I was really nervous about posting the last fic/chaper bc it was a risky twist, but it seemed like it was well received so thank you so much :D 
> 
> Since I go back to work on the 4th, updates are going to inevitably slow down, which sucks bc i wish i could write this all day. But capitalism means I have to work :( So from the 4th I'm going to try and update once a week, maybe more if I have a slow week but we'll see. 
> 
> Tim and Martin chapters will follow! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy and thank you again <3

Jon’s first day at the Magnus Institute certainly hadn’t been what he’d expected. The beautiful Victorian building, with it’s high wrought iron railings, viciously pointing up towards the hazy sky, it’s smooth stone steps cut impeccably sharp and regular, and the huge wooden doors straining on their metal hinges to contain the secrets inside, had looked the same as the last time he’d been there. The multiple stories reaching their grasping, ancient hands up into the crisp air high above looked just as ominous as ever, the large windows letting in impossibly little light considering their size, weak pin pricks of grey-streaked glittering streams pushing through the scratched glass, illuminating the web-like cracks that splintered out like cruel hands, grasping and reaching and extending. 

The inside was very much like the outside; dark shadows writhing and dancing in the corners of huge rooms, vast stone walls echoing loudly every sound that dared push against them, and hard wooden floors that reflected everything in distorted, warped images, a mocking parody of reality. 

Jon couldn’t help the involuntary shiver that rattled through his thin frame, the oppressive feeling of being watched pushing unyielding on his chest, a heavy blanket that draped across his shoulders, pinning him to the spot. 

He took a deep breath, reminding himself why he was doing this. There was no way he was going to leave Martin in this place alone, even if he could feel dark hands grasping out and into his head, demanding to know him, to run its hot fingers through his memories and thoughts and feelings. 

“Jon!” Sasha called over to him, her soft curls bouncing off her shoulders as she walked, a scarf wrapped high on her neck despite being inside. Before Jon could reply, Sasha wrapped surprisingly strong arms around him, her glasses bumping painfully against his shoulder. 

When she pulled back, her expression was a little sheepish. “Sorry! I’m so bad at this whole professionalism thing. How are you?” 

Jon smiled softly, the dark fingers receding from his mind, the blanketed oppression lifting slightly, just at the corner. “It’s fine, it’s nice actually to see a familiar face. I’m, I’m alright thanks. Yourself?” 

Sasha looked down at Jon through her glasses, perched worryingly low on her nose. “I’m good. I’m so glad you’re here, it’s so refreshing to have another person who will act, well, somewhat professional. No pressure.” 

Her smile was infectious, reaching out with warm arms, wrapping him in a comforting embrace. As if to illustrate her point, Tim strode in in a Hawaiian shirt, the buttons half undone, an easy smile on his face, and a glint of mischief in his eyes. 

“You guys will never guess what that freak Elias just said to me-” Tim startled at the sight of Jon, his eyes crinkling in the corners as his smile widened. “Oh, Jon! Hi. Welcome aboard to the dream team.” 

Sasha sighed, but her eyes twinkled with barely contained humour. “Tim, for the last time, we are not calling ourselves the dream team.” 

Tim sat on his desk, as opposed to behind it, boredly switching his computer on, and sending important looking papers fluttering to the floor in sheets of white snow. “Smarchivists?” 

“Worse.” Sasha smiled slightly, although she tried not to. “And please don’t sit on your desk.” Tim gave an exaggerated sigh, making a dramatic show of standing up, picking up the scattered papers, and sitting properly in his desk chair. 

A warm feeling spread in Jon’s chest at the sight of their antics. It was clear that under the flimsy guise of professionalism, there were strong undercurrents of actual friendship, unbreakable bonds that twisted and wound around themselves, so it was impossible to tell them apart or where they started. 

Martin walked in then, hands partially covered in the knitted sleeves of a soft jumper, carrying four mugs of tea, that he gave out accordingly. Jon brushed his fingers gently against the back of Martin’s hand when he gave him his tea, delighting in the light pinkish colour that spread across his cheeks. 

“Right,” Sasha started, clapping her hands together, her expression pinched in seriousness, a stern glint in her eyes. “I thought since Jon is pretty new to all this, he could observe each of us recording statements, so he could get a general idea of how we do it and which ones need to be recorded to tape.” Sasha turned to Jon, her smile friendly yet reserved, an air of detached authority curled around her frame. “If that’s alright with you?” 

“Yes, of course.” Jon nodded, wrapping his fingers around his warm mug, ghosting his lips delicately across the rim, feeling small tendrils of oppressive heat reaching out to caress his cheeks. 

“Great.” Sasha nodded to herself, taking a sip of her own tea. “You can start with me.” 

Jon followed Sasha into her office, the dull thump of the wooden door startling him slightly, the sharp scrape of the chair across the floor assaulting his ears. 

“Sorry.” Sasha winced, indicating for Jon to sit on the other side of the desk. “Normally, we commit all recordings to the laptops, but there are some that won’t. These are the ones that are...real if you like. So we have to use the tape recorders.” At this, she slid open the desk draw and took out a bulky black recorder, fresh tape already inserted. 

“Oh, like my statement. That, ah, that had to be recorded on tape.” Sasha nodded, grinning in a way that reminded Jon of a proud teacher. 

“Exactly.” Sasha pushed her glasses up and curled her hair into a ponytail, sweeping stray hairs behind her ears. “Right, I’m gonna start recording this one. If you have any questions would it be alright to wait until the end? I, um, I get engrossed in these statements and it can be disorientating to be snapped out from that.” 

Jon watched as Sasha shuffled the pages in front of her, concentration lines etching into the middle of her forehead. “Of course.” 

Sasha flashed him a grin, teeth startling white against her dark skin. Clearing her throat, she pushed a stray curl off her face, and the tape recorded clicked on. 

“Statement of Thomas Neill, regarding his experiences working in malarial research during the spring of two thousand and ten. Statement begins.” 

Jon watched, slightly entranced as Sasha’s voice morphed and shifted from rigorous academic to something softer, laced with empathy, that seemed to sneak up on the words she was reading, taking them by surprise. It was as though she became the person in the statement, the scientific jargon falling naturally from her lips, as though the words had been hidden there all along, dangling precariously on the precipice, threatening to spill over at any moment. 

It was unsettling how Sasha seemed to know, to understand, not only the experience of the statement giver, but also the information contained inside. How she suddenly understood the scientific research, understood how the statement giver must have been feeling, absorbing the experience and claiming it as her own. 

Jon had that insidious feeling of being watched again, his shoulders hunching in an attempt to divert the attention off of himself. 

“Statement ends.” Sasha exhaled slowly, her eyes becoming focused once again, drinking in the room as though seeing it all for the first time. She blinked a few times, as though waking up from a restful sleep that left her disorientated, confused. Sasha rattled through her final comments, voice sounding more rooted than when she’d been reading the statement, less like it was coming from far away, light and distant. 

Jon swallowed against his dry throat, fighting the urge to shift when Sasha clicked the tape recorder off and met his gaze. He thought he could see a hazy mist there, obscuring the clear colour, and making her look dazed. But she blinked and it was gone. 

“Obviously everyone has their own way of reading statements, so just try to find what works for you.” Sasha smiled brightly, once again present and anchored to the moment. “In the final comments, try to just pick out any common features or names, look for verifiable factors and anyone who can corroborate the story.” 

Jon nodded numbly, wondering idly if he’d imagined what he saw. “Yeah, I, ah, I can do that.” 

Sasha untied her hair, letting the soft curls bounce and cascade over her shoulders, and fall down her back once again. “Great. I’ll arrange with Tim and Martin for you to observe them reading statements as well.” She shuffled the papers again. “For now, maybe you could help with confirming the events of this statement? Try and see if you can get in touch with any of the researchers named here, see if they can confirm these weird mosquitoes.” 

Jon rubbed his cold hands together. “Sure, I’ll get right on that.” He stretched delightfully as he stood, feeling his stiff muscles writhe and stretch under his skin. 

As he walked out of Sasha’s office, he noticed Tim and Martin were sat at their respective desks, Martin scribbling rapidly on a sheet of paper, his nose worryingly close to the page, his forehead creased adorably. 

Tim was boredly typing away at his computer, absentmindedly twirling a pen in his hand, tapping it sporadically against the desk. “How was it?” 

Martin glanced up, a blur of black ink smeared across his slightly flushed cheek. Jon smiled fondly, sitting at his own desk. 

“It was, ah, it was honestly a bit intense.” Jon replied, reordering the statements on his desk, despite them being impeccably stacked. 

Martin smiled sympathetically, whilst Tim laughed, his smile soppy and open. 

“Did she do the voice?” Tim asked, a playful glint in his eyes. He picked up a stapler, pretending it was a tape recorder. His voice mimicking and deep, sounding posher than usual. “Statement of Joe spooky, regarding weird goings on, and sinister ghosts.” 

Jon felt himself smiling, pretending to be occupied with the work on his desk. 

“Tim!” Martin scolded, although Jon could see he was fighting a smile too. “Don’t do that.” 

Tim winked at Jon, putting his feet up on his desk. “Just you wait, I’ll show you how to record statements proper.” 

Jon glanced up, eyebrows raised incredulously. “I’m assured.” 

Despite the apparent weirdness of the institute, Jon’s chest felt warm and light in a way it only usually did with Martin. He couldn’t remember a time when his smile had been so open and care free, completely autonomous in its decision to appear. He glanced up to see Martin smiling softly at him, and Jon knew this was where he belonged.


	2. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon observes Tim recording a statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there will be actual plot soon, but for now I'm revealing in the team relationships we were robbed of in canon. Thank you for everyone who's read these and left kudos and comments <3
> 
> Also I'm v upset that in the retrospective 2 the tma staff didn't choose any jonmartin moments???? The disrespect smh djkskjkjfksjf. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Jon was starting to understand why Sasha was so relieved to have another professional in the team. He’d been shadowing Tim this morning, observing how he recorded the statements, and trying to figure out what way would work best for himself. 

And it had been interesting, to say the least. Tim started the recording by learning precariously back in his chair, nothing but hope making the chair legs cling to the floor, and adopting a posture more adept for watching tv on a Sunday afternoon than academic reading of important statements. 

Jon’s hand paused where he’d been writing notes, the black scrawl skittering across the page like millions of insect legs, and glanced up. 

Tim smiled playfully, holding up the statement so he could read it, and clicking the tape recorder on. 

“Statement of Herbert Knox, about…” He flicked lazily through the statement pages, forehead scrunched in concentration. The rustling of papers slicing through the silence that had settled. “Uh, a weird customer in his bookshop. Michael someone. Statement starts.” 

Jon watched in disbelief as Tim began reading the statement, his voice stopping and starting, like an engine in stubborn refusal to start. There was no engrossed compulsion, as there had been with Sasha, no distant voice filled with empathy and sympathy and understanding, no attempt to make it sound like a first hand statement. It sounded for all the world as Tim was reading off a lunch order. He would hum under his breath occasionally at particularly interesting points in the statement, nodding perciperly to himself, as if confirming his own thoughts, and messily scrawl something down. 

Jon figured that Tim did care and he was concentrating, but the statements could be a bit much sometimes. Maybe this adopted carefree attitude was just Tim’s way of putting distance between himself and whatever horrors were occurring. 

“Statement ends.” Tim pushed his chair back onto the floor with a dull thump, recording comments, and turning the tape recorder off with a click of finality. 

“Michael Crew is one of the names to watch out for.” Tim said, his voice uncharacteristically serious, his mouth failing to fall into that easy smile. “He’s an avatar of the vast.” 

Jon nodded, scrawling down the name and information onto his notes. But he’d been too eager to write it that he’d forgotten to wait for the ink to dry, and a dark wave washed along the side of his hand, cold and damp where it touched his warmed skin. Jon clicked his tongue in annoyance, the shimmering ink splashed dark and reaching with long fingers. 

“So, what can be done in terms of follow up?” Jon asked, taking full advantage of the only time he’d seen Tim acting remotely serious. 

Tim hummed, flicking through the pages faster than he could possibly be reading them. “See if we can contact Herbet Knox I guess, although there’s not a lot we can do really. Check in with a few of the University students maybe? See if they remember Michael Crew.” Tim shrugged, smiling in that way that made Jon feel like if he stared long enough, he could learn everything about Tim, to know him fully. 

He wore his feelings etched into the light lines of his skin, his playful delight creased into the corners of his eyes, the sides of his mouth twitching in disgust at the statement details, his nose wrinkling in barely contained humour at his own jokes. You could learn everything about Tim from his face alone, his expression open and eager to be read. It almost hurt to look at. 

“Right. I’ll get on that.” Jon desperately tried to rub the ink from his hand, sighing as the stubborn smudge refused to move and curled further down his arm. 

Tim grinned infectiously, his eyes open and painfully earnest. “Thank you, assistant.” 

Jon let out a sigh of fake annoyance, eyebrows twitching in an expression of weariness. “For the last time Tim, I’m not your assistant. I’m an archival assistant for the head archivist, which is Sasha.” 

Tim laughed loudly, gathering up the statement pages, and putting them back in the folder. He stood up and walked to the door. “Whatever you say.” 

The door thumped shut behind him. Jon gathered up his notes, shaking his head in exasperation at Tim’s antics. The warm flame flickering in his chest was extinguished by a heavy feeling blanketing his shoulders. Jon shivered violently. He searched for the source of the gaze, but he was completely alone. 

Jon quickly stood up and left. And the blanket lifted as he did.


	3. Martin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon observes Martin recording a statement. Hurt/comfort and lots of fluff :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanna prefix this by making it clear this is absolutely against every HR rule of how to interact with someone you're dating in the workplace environment kksdjkksj would not recommend. 
> 
> Also, as always, constructive criticism along with kudos and comments are very much appreciated. 
> 
> I hope 2021 is treating you well so far, and I hope you enjoy! <3

Jon was supposed to be observing how Martin read statements. Well, he was observing, but his hand rested heavily on the table, the pen askew and limp, seconds from toppling out of his weak grasp, clattering on the worn surface of the wooden desk. The page for his notes was smooth and blank, the white paper eagerly waiting for that first scratch of pen that never came. 

Martin’s forehead was wrinkled in concentration, his eyes gliding across the pages, his mouth crinkling in the corners when he read something unsavoury. 

He sighed, glancing up with flushed cheeks, and a small tugging at his mouth, demanding and insistent. “Jon. You’re staring.” Martin’s voice was soft and gentle, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature. 

Jon put his pen down with a light clatter, all pretences of concentration abandoned. “I’m observing.” 

Martin huffed a quiet laugh. Jon would’ve missed it if he didn’t know him so well; recognising the light lines around his eyes, and the small shaking of his head as barely contained amusement. 

Martin scribbled down some notes, humming under his breath, and eyes darting back and forth between the statement and the paper pad. 

He cleared his throat. “Jon.” The other man hummed in response. “You’re still staring.” 

Jon swept his hair back, securing it with the pen he decidedly wasn’t going to use. “I’m still observing.” Jon reached over to knock their hands together, gently running his thumb over Martin’s knuckles. 

Martin flushed deeper, giving in to the smile that was petulantly tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m never gonna to get any work done with you here.” 

Jon huffed indignantly. “Are you saying I’m a bad influence?” He now knocked his foot against Martin’s under the table, expression impressively blank as he did so. 

Martin pretended not to notice. “You’re a menace.” 

Jon laughed softly, the deep lines etched into his face lessening, his eyes glinting with the warm glow of happiness. He adopted a deeper, posher accent, not dissimilar to Elias’, looking at Martin through his askew glasses perched low on his nose. 

“And where’s your evidence to support that claim, Mr Blackwood?” 

Martin cleared his throat, sitting up in his chair, and suppressing a smile. “Well, Mr Sims, since you got here, all you’ve done is stare at me. Not to mention all the jostling. It’s very distracting.” 

“Am I not allowed to stare at my boyfriend?” Jon pressed their hands closer together. “You’re very distracting.” 

Martin flushed a deep red, his ears burning, desperately trying to not fidget in his chair. “I, er, I, um.” He coughed lightly. “I suppose so. But, um, maybe not at work.” 

Jon smiled, squeezing Martin’s hand briefly, before pulling back. “Okay, I’ll be professional.” Martin snorted. “Are you going to read the statement?” 

Martin stilled, his breaths quickening. “Yes, um, yes. It’s just, er, the statements can be sort of, um, intense..?” His hands started wringing around each other, and he shuffled in his seat, eyes glancing from the statement, to his notes, to Jon, and back again. 

Jon frowned. “Oh, well, if you, ah, if you don’t want me here for it. I can, I can go.” 

“No.” Martin reached out and laced their hands together, Jon’s cold hand helping to anchor him, his feather touch as he ran his fingers over Martin’s knuckles comforting him. “It, er, it helps.To, um, have you here.” 

Jon nodded, his eyes softening in understanding. “Okay. I’ll stay.” 

Martin sighed in relief, shuffling the papers even though they were already organised, and sitting up in his chair. He glanced at Jon, who offered an encouraging smile, and clicked record on the tape recorder. 

“Right. Um, statement of, er, Andrea Nunis. Regarding, um, a series of encounters in, er, Genoa, Italy.” Martin cleared his throat. “Statement begins.” 

Jon felt a rush of warm fondness reaching like grasping hands into his chest, closing its long fingers around his heart, and pushing that pulsing heat around his body. Martin’s voice sounded different than usual, his soft accent sharpened with academic superiority. He had that distant look in his eyes, like he’d been looking at something so long that they’d started to unfocus, to glaze over. He was looking but not seeing. It was slightly unnerving, but Jon had seen Sasha react very similarly, so he assumed it was just something about the statements that captured their interest, forcing them to focus on nothing else, wanting to be read. 

Jon noticed the slight tremor in Martin’s hands, the papers rustling and shifting as he read on. His voice sounded far away, like he was speaking from the other side of the Institute, rather than just across the table. 

It was captivating how lost he’d seen them both get in the statements, as though all the secrets of the universe were contained in the page, eyes hungry and voice wanting. 

It took far too long for Jon’s liking to hear “Statement ends.”   
Martin took a shuddering breath, his eyes shiny, his hands still shaking. He rattled off some quick comments and clicked the button to finish recording a bit harsher than needed. 

Martin swallowed hard, taking deep breaths that rattled around in his chest, sticking to the sides of his throat. Jon stood up and wrapped his arms around Martin’s sitting frame, taking the rare opportunity to rest his cheek on Martin’s head, feeling the soft curls tickling his face gently. Martin melted into the touch, a marionette with the strings cut, his body pliable in Jon’s strong grip. 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Jon whispered practiced comforts into Martin’s hair, holding him tightly as though trying to keep Martin desperately together. “You’re okay.” 

Martin took a few shaky breaths, tilting his head up to press his nose against Jon’s. He kept his eyes squeezed shut. 

Jon held Martin until his breaths evened out, until he felt once again anchored to the present, until he could feel nothing except Jon’s warm arms, protectively curled around him. 

Martin shuffled and Jon let him go. “Sorry, I, um, it’s just, just very overwhelming.” 

Jon clicked his tongue, cupping Martin’s flushed cheeks in his cool hands, and brushing back his tight curls off his forehead. “Don’t apologise.” His voice was stern. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

Martin swallowed, throat dry. “But-” 

Jon stared at him, his eyes paradoxically steely and gentle with affection. “No. Will you just let me take care of you for once? You deserve it.” 

Martin couldn’t meet Jon’s eyes, his hands tightly clenched resting on his legs. Embarrassment squirmed in his stomach, warm and curling, wriggling uncomfortably. Martin nodded, not trusting his voice to remain steady. 

Jon stood up. “I’m going to go and make us some tea. Wait right here, I’ll be back.” Martin nodded again, running his hands over the worn wood of the desk, picking out the deep grooves, and tracing the engraved lines of writing with his fingers. The cool metal of the chair bit into his hands as he tightly clenched it, and it helped to anchor him to the present. 

When Jon returned, he set down the two mugs, and gently prised Martin’s hands from the chair, rubbing warmth into his cool fingers, pressing a soft kiss to the palm of his hand. Martin took the mug with a noise of delight. 

“Thank you.” He whispered into the rim of the cup, feeling the warm tendrils of heat reach out and wrap him in a comforting hug. “I’m, I’m so glad you’re here.”   
Jon smiled gently. “I’m glad I’m here too.”


End file.
